


Damn It, Frodo

by HenryMercury



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Genre: Authorial Sarcasm, Bad Fic, Crack, Humor, M/M, Seriously the worst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-29
Updated: 2014-01-29
Packaged: 2018-01-10 11:38:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1159265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HenryMercury/pseuds/HenryMercury





	Damn It, Frodo

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nightspark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightspark/gifts).



The waters that carry Frodo’s small boat are calm, but inside him brews a vicious storm of emotions. Regret flares in his tormented heart as sharp and fiery as Sauron’s evil gaze.

Sam’s cries from the riverbank already sound like the distant whispers of ghosts from another life, a happy memory that no longer belongs to Frodo. They tug at his heartstrings until they threaten to snap. Frodo wishes Sam would simply let go; he’s too good a man to be dragged down the dark path Frodo must now follow.

Frodo must endure it by himself, a solitary traveller walking down a lonely road, the only one that he will ever know. He isn’t sure where it goes, but it is his home now, and he must walk it alone.

He does not consider what Sam will do when Frodo abandons him, but he assumes he’ll get home safely. He can just turn around and walk back; it’s not like they’ve encountered any trouble on their journey so far.

And yet, Sam, that bright and ever-faithful spring of hope and loyalty and largely misplaced faith refuses to leave him. As Sam splashes out into the water Frodo fears that he has lost him forever because Sam can’t swim.

Oh, if only he had not left his gardener behind in a fit of self-absorbed Winchesterly angst, Frodo laments, then Sam’s life would not be ebbing away into these cold waters. Goddamn it Frodo, he curses himself, Why can’t you do anything helpful, ever?

Frodo’s delicate eyebrows pull inwards in concern, crinkling the porcelain skin of his super-smooth clay-like face and making his enormous round blue eyes appear especially blue and round. Futile tears well up from the depths of their hypnotic blueness and his irises glitter like light shining through a sapphire, one of those man-made ones not the real black-blue ones because they’re too dark. As blue as the peaceful sky back home in the sweet, sweet Shire, where there was nothing but smoking weed and getting slizzard to be done.

Finally, Frodo moves to help his friend, who is still drowning.

Unsure of whether he will be able to pull Sam back to the surface by merely offering a hand, Frodo gets to his feet and does what must inevitably, necessarily, be done. First, he removes his shirt, exposing his pasty, marble-like torso. His trousers follow, the garments lying forgotten on the floor of the boat as Frodo heroically swan-dives into the water in search of Sam.

He has realised, as this near-death-or-possibly-actual-death experience has unfolded, that Sam is more than merely a gardener to him. He is the love of his life; his one true love; his soul mate; literally the only person in all of Middle Earth who will put up with his bullshit.

The water is chilly against Frodo’s skin, but it is nothing compared to the cold, consuming darkness in his soul.

Sam is just beneath the surface, where Frodo probably could have reached him from the boat, but oh well. He wraps his arms around his soul mate in a passionate embrace, pulling him back to the surface. Sam splutters and spits out the water that had invaded his lungs, and then turns to Frodo.

“Why are you naked?” he asks.

“Oh Sam,” Frodo answers with a dopey, besotted expression on his sensitive face.

They kiss fervently, their passion so hot that Saruman’s badass mines and shit would be jealous of how fiery it is.

“I love you Sam,” Frodo declares, romantically dragging his lover back to the boat.

“I love you more, Mr. Frodo,” Sam replies, gazing soulfully into Frodo’s dazzlingly round man-made sapphire coloured eyeballs.

“Will you marry me?” Frodo asks, tears of sudden and overwhelming joy streaming down his face along with the droplets of water.

“Yes, yes of course I will,” Sam says.

“If only I had a ring to give you,” Frodo sighs. Then an ingenious idea strikes him. “I just remembered,” he smiles at his beloved, “I do have a ring!”

Frodo takes the One Ring from the chain where it dangles over his really pale naked chest and slides it slowly onto Sam’s finger.

Sam disappears suddenly. Frodo loses his grip on his fiancée, who flails helplessly in the water until finally, the splashing is replaced with deathly, emotionally crippling silence and stillness.

Frodo’s eyebrows draw together dramatically. 


End file.
